


day zero

by jinjangled



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, M/M, Mystery, Survival, discussion of death!! in case you are uncomfortable with that!, i will add more tags when i figure out where this is heading!!, or an attempt at mystery rather, virus dystopia, we'll see how we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinjangled/pseuds/jinjangled
Summary: Sanha had been convinced he was dead as soon as he had turned and walked back inside that building. He had come to terms with that, had been completely willing. As soon as the Virus had reached his town, something that could only be described aschaoshad broken out.





	day zero

The human body is designed to wake the mind and bring it back to consciousness upon the detection of noise. It cycles through periods of deep sleep and wakefulness, hyper aware of its surroundings for a short time, _ just in case _ . It is a survival technique, one that is innate and will, most likely, forever remain. The human body, once passed onto the next life, is  _ not  _ designed to reawaken, to reanimate itself, no matter how loud the bump in the night may be.

Sanha had been convinced he was dead as soon as he had turned and walked back inside that building. He had come to terms with that, had been completely willing. As soon as the Virus had reached his town, something that could only be described as  _ chaos  _ had broken out. The Virus was something nobody had gifted with a name. There was no need, especially not where Sanha had been brought up. It was a slow developing disease, one that crept up when individuals least expected it. Students that slept very little, studied too hard, abandoned their basic needs, were easily brought down by it. The elderly, too, because once they fell sick with anything, it was  _ very _ easily a downhill journey from there. When the first person fell sick with it, and then the next, that  _ chaos _ was a desperate attempt to get those who had yet to be touched by it  _ out of there _ , and to reluctantly hurry the ill along with them - but some distance behind the others. They would find medicine in the city, and although it was their last and least preferred option, it was also their best. 

The thing is - and will always be - that there are two distinct opinions, two distinct sides. One either loves the city, loves the odd culture, the weird morals and cult-like setting of it; or one despises it with every fibre of one’s being. Sanha was brought up to love everyone equally, no matter how cold their expression, how hard their eyes are. He was taught to love a man who may hold a gun to his head, taught to love a young boy with the Virus. He was a boy with a heart full of love, and was taught to believe that anyone he saw was deserving of that love.

He was taught to love by those who could not love in the same way they taught - his parents did not give him the affection he would give so readily and generously. He had learnt from observation, had learnt by figuring out what he did not want to be. He had discovered that his father had followed a path devoted to his studies, had become a man so absorbed in the numbers and cases and facts, had become a man obsessed with dollar signs and a fat wallet; a man that had abandoned a sense of compassion. His father had lost touch with his tender side, the side that his mother had first fallen in love with. His eyes that should have fell upon his baby son with nothing but excitement and love were instead filled with that _look_ Sanha would soon become familiar with, a look that Sanha realised was one he wore when he was analysing things. He observed, he took mental notes, picked apart the situation much too objectively. He considered facts, not feelings. A lawyer in profession, he was used to looking at things from both sides, from all sides, and to come to an intelligent solution that would settle an argument, would _win him_ _his argument_. He held his baby son like he was disconnected to him, like he was just another case to solve, and even from the first day, he was _strict_. He was structured, he was witty, he was organised. He was a man that had an affinity for routine, yet not a natural instinct to _love._ He treasured intelligence, but not empathy.

His mother should have made up for the tough love his father showed him. She should have been his opposite; should have been a woman with soft hands and a warm heart, should have been a woman with kindness bigger than herself. Perhaps she once was that person, but his earliest memories only recall the person he called Mother. It was Mother, not  _ mum _ , not  _ mother _ . Mother, like the name he used to call on her, was blunt, sharp, kneading. Kneading like weathered fingers on dough, pressing and  _ hurting _ . She was a baker by trade, and the best in their town. She spent long hours at the shop, and for that, Sanha would always admire her. She came home late, because preparation for the next day always took time; time she would always prefer to spend mixing yeast and warm water rather than reading to her son as he went to sleep. She was rough around the edges, and Sanha became softer and more feathered as he watched her live her life. His father was analytical, his mother giving him that same tough love, and he would become someone to balance that.

Care, although a message received from mixed signals, was still present in Sanha’s younger life. It came in the form of an award framed and hung up on the wall in the entryway to their house, it came in the form of his silent father putting his art projects on the fridge. It came in the form of a knitted beanie when he complained of cold ears in the winter, a bowl of hot soup passed across the table without a word from his mother’s mouth. Although pressed into a straight line, he knew that mouth was uttering noiseless kindness, love in its own way.

What he didn’t exactly get from his parents, he received from many others. He was a very treasured boy within the community, always the class pet, always the boy that others would look to for a joke. He was all smiles and cheerful statements, sly comments that prodded at humour when there was nothing but sadness and anxiety left in the air.

Sanha was a boy that loved. He was a boy that felt confusion at the fact that not everyone had a heart full of love like he did; for he was so used to loving. He was confused because some people seemed to have no heart at all.

He’d always known the town’s elderly population to either be hateful, or neutral. He could never find common ground when it came to loving others. His affection for the human race was sorely unreciprocated, and when he had wanted nothing more than to gush about the lovely cashier at the shopping centre that day, he was always told that he shouldn’t trust that much, shouldn’t  _ love  _ that much. He knew that the cause of their distaste was the Virus. They were scared, probably; scared for themselves, and scared for their family. Latching onto somebody could only end in disaster, for the minute that one felt for another person, would be the minute that the Virus would get to them. It was something like an old wives’ tale, some superstition, yet one that held so much power that with it brought  _ hate. _

He had heard whispers of the Virus since he was a child, had seen his friends stay home for a week after a pimple turned to a sore, and then stay home forever; he’d heard quiet threats directed at newcomers, at new  _ babies _ , for crying out loud. Anyone touched by the Virus had a curse beyond their sickness, and that curse came in the form of the elderly.

The curse, as he’d labelled it in his head, had fallen upon the town on the day that everyone found sores on their body. The elderly had always fought with their tongues, the awful, evil words that spilled off of them, but it would not take much for those words to turn to knives. The day that his mother woke up with her hands shaking and her legs too weak to stand, the day his father woke up with his face swollen beyond recognition, was also the day that the town was no less than destroyed. It had been ‘accidental’; an ‘accidental’ match thrown into a window, an ‘accidental’ gas leak, an ‘accidental’ chemical fire. 

Sanha had watched in terror as the orphanage turned yellow, turned orange, turned  _ red _ . His memory confused fire with blood, or maybe it remembered all too vividly. He’d heard the wail of a child, the scream of a  _ friend _ . His hand, wrapped around his father’s bicep, was pulled back toward his body and balled into a fist. He was torn. Torn between leaving this place, leaving to find a better life in a better place, finding help to bring his parents back to health; and staying. Staying meant redeeming himself, staying meant that for all of the times he might have hurt someone, he might make that up with saving a life. Staying meant making up for what he lacked in school with bravery, with courage. To risk his life meant to bring someone else’s life back within their grasp.

With a glance back at his mother, a nod of his head to his father, he turned and ran. He ran straight toward the building, the pop of air bubbles released from wood, the sound of crumbling plaster, and he fought his way through thick smoke. His head felt light and like it would roll right off of his shoulders if he ran too quickly. He’d opened a window in a frenzy, reaching his arms toward trembling hands, tiny hands, tiny fingers,  _ tiny lives _ , and he’d pulled as many as he could out of there. The mother of the orphanage had crawled out after them, wailing in despair. Her hands clawed at his skin, and through the haze of his panic, he saw red sores littering her fingers. Red rimmed eyes searched his fervently, salty tears running over cracked lips; something about one of the children, she had sobbed out, and Sanha found himself understanding her blubbering. He’d climbed through the now shattered window, because opening a window in this situation was different from opening a window to feel a summer breeze, and he’d listened. He’d listened past the sound of the moving building, moving because it was falling, because it was crumbling. He’d listened for that quiet cry, a strangled scream, the slow cough. It was trapped under a bookshelf, an  _ it  _ because he couldn’t tell who they were through the smoke, couldn’t tell who they were from the fog crowding the niches of his brain. He’d more or less thrown them toward the window, an encouraging hand turning into a push as he fought to keep his own life. He found himself draped over the windowsill, the other orphans and the mother lost to the night, the child not strong enough to pull him through. He’d called for them to  _ go,  _ to run. He called to them that he would follow. To his left, he saw a match on the floor. The tip was black, curled in on itself. His head fell to his arms, folded on the windowsill, and he felt every bit of his body ache. He felt betrayal stronger that he’d ever felt it, stronger than he’d ever felt  _ love _ .

He’d stayed there. Maybe his heart had followed that child, gripped in its sooty hands, or perhaps his soul had lived on in it. He had followed as best he could, but his feet had never made it to the other side of that window.

 

The human body, when  _ asleep _ , can wake again. The human body - Sanha’s  _ very  _ human body - should not be shuddering to a start. Not after having been idle for so long, not after he was so sure he had passed over. It should not be slowly coming to life like a car restarting, although little rusty, a little too broken down. And yet, his ribs feel the dig of a metal frame, his knees feel the sharp cut of glass. His head feels the pulse of a migraine, his throat feels the parched quality of smoke and dehydration. His stomach aches with hunger, yet he wants to throw up. And throw up he does.

It could be hours before he wakes again. Could be days. Hell, Sanha could have been there for a millenium for all he knew. 

Sanha regards it as some kind of strange miracle, some kind of blessing and curse combined into an almost sick joke. His eyes blink open, dust crowding his senses, ash colouring his skin grey. It smells burnt, but not birthday-candle-burnt, which he would have much preferred. He didn’t like the implications of not-birthday-candle-burnt, didn’t like the memories that the scent is bringing back to the surface. Life, his own life, may be a miracle; but at the same time, he was now lost in this ocean of confusion and misery - alone.

 

Sanha knew that he could so easily slip and fall into that chasm he had dipped his feet into; a pond that held a liquid so toxic that dipping far enough in - anything past his ankles perhaps - would kill him quicker than he could process it. He’d seen it with his own two eyes, smelt it on a breeze that carried nothing but ash and smoke, felt it on his knees that bled from scraping glass. He had sat on the edge for too long, and that dryness in his mouth was tugging him further forward.

If he was to slip and fall now, he’d do it somewhere safe. He’d do it where there was even a slim chance of finding water, finding food, finding  _ something _ that his community might have left for those left behind. Left behind were those sorry lives, lived by sorry souls, souls that would slowly be finding their way to the stars by now. 

A church, which, in a mind not clouded by everything he felt at that moment, might have very well been his last resort. His legs move on their own accord, his arms following suit in the way they pull and scramble; or perhaps they lead. He can’t tell, can’t really  _ see _ , not from where he watches himself from far, far above. He seems to watch his exhausted, heavy body pull itself out of the orphanage window, fall on the gravel outside. It stays there for a while, unsure of its own surroundings. He can see through his own eyes, still, although he’s struggling to focus his blurry vision. There, in all of its glory, stands the church. Rather, his memory tells him that the church should be there. His memory tells him that it should have a tall steeple, pretty and intricate designs woven into the marble it is built from. It is now nothing more than a sad structure, one that weeps day old smoke, slow and opaque tears flowing up to the heavens it was built to worship. It cries tears that Sanha might have shared if he’d had a strong enough grasp on emotion. It is touched by the same grief that now holds Sanha’s heart, the structure crumbling and cracking in the same ways Sanha feels himself mirroring.

The church had once been a place of solace for many. It had been a home for those lacking one, a place of peace and reflection for those who so desperately needed it. It had served the hungry, the thirsty, the spiritless, the hopeless. Sanha had never felt so connected to it, never felt reason to; his God had been his parents and friends, fed by their hands, nurtured by their minds and hearts, his heart serving as his place of worship. He felt no need to worship a God that could provide him with what he already had, yet he had always respected the church for the work they did. Knew that they kept food and water, blankets and candles for those who needed it.

Sanha feels guilty in thinking he now needs that. Feels guilty because he does not believe in that God, and taking property belonging to those who  _ do _ feels  _ wrong _ . Yet, the feeling of cotton pressing against his teeth is driving him crazy, as is the pain in his stomach. The pain in every single fibre of his body speaks louder than any moral or view can at this moment. Absorbed in his thoughts, his body moves on autopilot toward the steeple that now lies on the filthy ground. Sanha knows that he, later, will feel saddened for the state of the church. He will feel saddened to know that the glass he crawls upon now once formed such gorgeous artwork, formed the stained windows that reflected a kaleidoscope onto the pews, cast blue light on bowed heads and fingers woven together in prayer.

It is almost too difficult to walk, but the knowledge of a food storage nearby is fuel enough. That, and the need, the absolute  _ need  _ to see his parents again. Giving up now meant he would give up on everything life offered him; friendship, sunlight, saplings growing into blossoming trees. Giving up meant giving up the opportunity to see a person, any person, caught mid laugh, wide smile and glittering eyes. Giving up now meant giving up on making people laugh, making the pain in somebody’s heart a little less obvious, just for a while. The hunger in his stomach pushes him forwards, the strength of his craving for water keeps him on his feet; feet that shake and roll and disobey his mind, and his ankles cry out under his weight, knees buckling with every third step. He envies the Sanha that, not too long ago, would refuse water if it was too  _ old _ , meaning a day old glass sitting upon his dresser would be considered unsavoury. Those thoughts had been nothing, had been fleeting, had required no thought. His only thoughts, now, are thoughts he refuses to  _ think _ . He refuses to wonder what it means to see a single shoe in the middle of the aisle. He refuses to think too hard about the shred of fabric ripped on a jagged piece of marble, refuses to acknowledge that same marble stained red, charred black. Against the wall, where he knows those plastic barrels of water will be, sits empty air. There, where the carpet is a little lighter  _ because  _ those barrels had been there for too long, is  _ absolutely nothing _ . Something in Sanha breaks, snaps with a  _ force  _ he did not anticipate. It may have been his heart, or perhaps his grip on hope. 

Feeling as empty as he could possibly be, Sanha drops to his knees. He stares at the carpet, its vibrant colour mocking him, laughing in the face of his despair, in the face of his weakness. His palms meet crumbled marble, grey dust clinging to the sweat and blood, yet he doesn’t care.  _ Can’t _ care. Caring is trivial, caring is nothing on death’s doorstep. He marvels at the dust on his hands, eyes unseeing, yet seeing too much.

He can see the altar still standing at the front of the church. It feels somewhat ironic, for the place of worship to stand so tall and indescribably majestic, even among soot and the ghosts of terror. Everywhere Sanha looks, he can see a story; can see something that mirrors his own efforts. Can see that the shred of fabric torn on the marble may have been a priest’s, pressed against the pillar as he forces everyone out before himself, that shred of fabric once belonging to a man who sacrificed himself for others. He can sense that fear; fear that he might not make it out, fear that he didn’t do enough, fear that he never amounted to much. Sanha knows that nobody in this church wanted to die, not like that. He can see an open book on the floor if he turns his head, perhaps open on a page that was once intended to bring hope to those who waited for fate. He can see the jagged edges of a stained glass window if he looks up, a window that somebody had smashed, with tears streaming down their face and a pain in their heart. He can sense their hesitation, wondering if placing their life first was selfish. He can sense their heartbreak as they destroy the story that the window holds, sense the way that a part of them was lost along the way.

Sanha feels a tug at his own heart. Feels it tug toward that altar, surrounded by destruction, yet so beautiful and pristine. He knows within himself that if he was to be departing today, he will leave at a place that holds hope. Hope for a better life, hope for freedom, hope for health. He wants his next life to mirror how that altar looks now; beautiful, untouched by sadness and sickness. He wants to be a beacon, because in this life, he never became that.

Clasping his hands in front of him and dipping his head between his elbows, he settles on his knees. And to the God he never believed in, he prays.

Although belief had never come easy to him, wishing had been almost second nature. He had  _ wished  _ that his prayers were heard, ever since he was a small child. He had  _ wished _ , like he is now. He speaks to God, as loud as he can, although words never leave his mouth. He asks this God, this figure that had always seemed too far away, to take care of his family. He asks God if his family is proud of him, because that was truly all he wanted, was half of the reason he went back to save those children. He tells God that if he had another chance, he’d never let another person live in misery, live with mistreatment. He’d never let another person go hungry if he could help it, because now he  _ understood _ . He understood physical hunger as he now understands hunger for company, hunger for benevolence. Sanha truly treasured life, he treasures whatever form of life he lives in this moment, and is determined to treasure it until his last breath. He prays to this God that his mother should get a break, that his father should sleep for longer. He prays for the elderly, not for their comeuppance, but for their redemption. He prays that they understand love in its purest form, prays that they understand the importance and sacredness of life. He prays that the world be restored of its former glory and beauty, for humanity to be restored of its goodness, to live up to its potential. 

He feels light; in mind, body, and soul. He feels freedom in speaking of these things, feels like he has been listened to. He doesn’t want to leave, not now, but he at least knows that he may have saved somebody. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ongoing work i will be doing!! i'm very excited for it, and i'm really looking forward to creating something that's a little different from what i usually do. i hope you enjoy following this story because i'm :(( really really excited  
> as always, thank you for reading this!!!!! i really really appreciate it.


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